Exploring Anton Chekhov's Short Stories

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Afternoon strolls listening to several short stories, very familiar, feel that Chekhov’s every piece of writing deserves reading. I don’t know why I spend so much time thinking about what it feels like to be emotionally wounded by these works. It just gets more and more addictive, and the more I’m tortured, the more I want to read. To be honest, these writers seem to pen works filled with hidden secrets, and the lower classes and people of low status get dirtied in this way. I can’t stand it as a person from the lower echelon; I have to read them cover to cover, even if my eyes bleed.

There’s a particularly moving story called “The Boy” that deeply hurt me. It describes an orphan treated as a servant, constantly doing menial work without rest, and after trying to hypnotize himself to sleep at night, he finally lost control and killed the baby in his care. The part that hurts the most isn’t just the terrible fate of this child but also his longing for that pit of happiness in his eyes, which is a kind of paradise in his mind. What really bothers me about Chekhov’s depiction of him killing the baby is how he avoids detailing the pain and emotions involved. Instead of explaining how he struggled with the problem, Chekhov simply shows it happening without any indication of struggle or pain.

Just finished “The Jumping Wives,” and when I heard her husband’s death, I felt a pang of sadness, tears nearly flowing down my face. I stopped halfway through cooking because it wasn’t making sense anymore. These stories about lower-class women aren’t new to me; Lewis’s Main Street: The Story of Carol Kennicott and are similar, but this one being a short story benefits from its typical nature. Typical means it’s concise, direct, puregiving you an immediate impact without any dilution.

I’m thinking about how these women ended up in such a sorry state because society doesn’t allow them to engage in productive labor; they rely on their husbands for support and are reduced to being creatures. It’s wrong in every way. I’m also pondering how much vanity people have regarding material wealth or status, and how this relates to society’s obsession with obscenity. This isn’t about Karsva’s comparison of the light of conscience to a bright diamondChekhov is talking about the coincidence of lower-class writers and their works.

I’m reading more and more of these stories because they give me an escape from life, but I don’t think that’s enough for some people. They want to read everything, as if there’s no limit to what they can consume. Chekhov and wrote about poor souls, but their depictions are vastly different.

Chekhov’s depiction of small characters seems authentiche’s a man in the making with all his imperfections, but he’s also elevated above our everyday world because you can recognize him in almost everyone you meet every day. ’s characters, on the other hand, seem more like archetypesflawless, real people who’ve been stripped of any human flaws. His works give you a strong sense that you’re staring into another person’s soul.

“The Sixth Ward” left me with a cold sweat just for listening to it. It’s not just a political ; it’s also about the nature of humanity. No one can guarantee themself free from suffering, imprisonment, or madness in this world. A man who gives up fighting is treated as if he were dead. I won’t spoil anything here, but this short story is definitely worth readingit’s my favorite so far.

Compared to the rest of the stories in this collection, “The Sixth Ward” is longer and denser, with its structural flaws hitting you over the head. I don’t think anyone can make fun of a doctor or a surgeon, even if they’re being .